


Sweet Dreams

by seizethelight



Category: Teen Wolf (TV) RPF
Genre: Character Bleed, Dirty Talk, Drunken Shenanigans, M/M, Phone Sex, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-26 05:15:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2639432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seizethelight/pseuds/seizethelight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He recognizes the cadence of his voice, what it's subconsciously doing. Ian wonders if Dylan notices too, or if he can just play it off like it's the bourbon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER - This is a complete work of fiction. The characters are based on real people, but the words and events contained within are entirely make believe.

Ian shuts the door after waving everyone off, stripping out of his clothes on the way to the bed. He sucks down half a bottle of water, pops a couple painkillers and collapses onto the mattress. Toying with the idea of stroking off before he passes out, he wonders what his mind could conjure to get him off to sleep. Ian grasps for his phone, where it lies blinking at him in the dark, and he swipes in to scroll through his bookmarked videos. A new message icon beckons, and Dylan replied to the photo Ian sent earlier, their faces all mashed together, reading _‘Wish you were here!’_

The _‘Me too. Happy Birthday Hoech!’_ is accompanied by a smiley face, and it brings a matching expression to Ian’s face. Sprawled out naked against the cool sheets, loose and tipsy and unguarded, Ian has an idea, hits the call button.

When he answers the phone, Dylan’s voice soft and slow, raspier than usual and Ian remembers he’s three hours ahead. 

“What do you want?” 

The sound of it goes straight through him, gets the sluggish downward flow of blood moving faster.

"Whatcha doin' Dyl?"

Dylan sighs a little, almost a huff and Ian smiles again in the darkness.

'Sleeping.' It's short, cut off, and Ian can almost see Dylan rubbing his hand over his face, the furrowed lines he gets between his eyebrows creasing in frustration. 'Why are you such a sadist?'

He likes the whine in Dylan's voice, how it turns up at the end, into something that almost outright asks Ian to keep going.

'Sadist? I'm not a sadist. I was just going to bed and wanted to say good night to you.' His own words are over articulated because of the booze, the ibuprofen and water he guzzled haven't kicked in yet. Ian recognizes the cadence of his voice, what it's subconsciously doing. He wonders if Dylan notices too, or if he can just play it off like it's the bourbon. “So. That's why I called. To say good night. Not to be a ...sadist.”

“You keep saying sadist. You sound like Peter.”

Not just his drunken mind then. Shit. Well, in for a penny. “So why are you still talking to me?”

'I didn't say I hated it.'

Oh. There's nothing sluggish anymore, suddenly Ian's senses are all firing on full cylinders. His hand, which has been toying with the edge of the sheet since he called, is now sliding beneath it, wrapping around himself.

“Well, you've been holding out on me, Dyl, haven't you?”

Dylan makes a noise on the other end of the phone, something that's muffled by a rustling noise. And Ian knows, he KNOWS,Dylan's got his dick in hand, at least through his pants.

'Do you have a thing for my Peter voice, Dylan? Are you actually turned on right now?'

'Shut it.' There's no heat behind the words, only a lie by omission of what Dylan's not saying. Ian strokes himself once, and the pressure feels amazing, in that slow, fizzy, full-body way.

He wants to moan out Dylan's name, but it seems too cliched so soon. So he breathes in tight, clenches his fingers around the base of his cock, and quells a little of the need.

'Hey, Dyl?'

'Hm?'

'Tell me what you're doing?' He tips up the statement at the end, but with the steel Ian fits into his voice, it's not a question.

There's a gasp on the other end of the line and Ian shifts the phone to his other shoulder. “Sorry, what?” 

'You woke me up and started talking to me like this, Ian. What do you think I'm doing?' It's so bratty, so sharp, so not Dylan. He sounds like...fuck, he sounds like Stiles.

So that's the game they're playing.

It's not the first time this has happened between them, a casual late night pull over their phones, but the roleplay part of it that Dylan's injecting into it - Ian could get into that. Could make it work really well.

"How often do you jerk off to the idea of Peter Hale telling you what to do?"

There's something choked on the other end of the line, and Ian can nearly see Dylan scrubbing his palm over the sparse hair on his chin, teeth sinking into the meat of his hand.

"Don't be embarrassed, Dyl. Him, me, it's all the same in the end, really, isn't it?"

“Uh-huh” It’s garbled, more noise than words, but it sounds desperate just desperate enough for Ian to pounce. 

"You rubbing it out right now? Did you wake up half-hard to the phone ringing, had to adjust yourself before picking up? When you saw it was me, did you think about doing this? You can tell me."

There's a beat of silence and Ian wraps his fist tight around himself. "Tell me."

"I hoped it was you." There's a frantic note to Dylan's voice that Ian likes. "I wanted you to tell me to get off, to fuck my fist, imagine it’s you doing it. God, wish you were here. Wish you could see me do it in person."

"What do you think, Dyl? I'd sit in a chair on the sidelines and watch you touch yourself? You think that would be good enough for me?" 

"No. I'd want your hands on me, your mouth, your cock in me. I'd want to suck you and have you open me up until I'm asking you to fuck me."

"All that and so much more. You know what I'm going to do to you?"

"Tell me, please, fuck." 

"I'm going to wreck you. I'm going to pull you apart, piece by piece, until you can't even remember your name until I remind you of it. I'm going to fuck you into the next week, Dylan, and make you beg me to let you come." He's not as aggressive normally, but the little kick of knowing it works for Dylan is bringing it out of him.

Dylan's gasping into the phone, moaning Ian's name. 'Yeah, please, I want that, want you, so bad. Please, I'm gonna - fuuuck, Ian."

He wants to be there, see the curve of Dylan's spine arch off the mattress, his whole body tense as he shoots over his clenched fist, wants to watch his mouth go slack with release, but Ian has to make do with the breathy way Dylan's muttering his name and the grip of his own palm around himself.

It only takes a minute or two, the ragged hitch of Dylan's breath pushing Ian over, coming fast and hard, a splash of heat against his skin. 

He fumbles for the towel wrapped around one of the bottles of water from earlier, swiping the mess on his stomach as best he can in the dark.

The dreamy buzz settles around Ian again, now that his cock's not calling the shots.

"That what you had in mind?' Dylan sounds tired and Ian feels just a little guilty for waking him up during a premiere week.

"More than satisfactory, thank you." He rolls over and tries not to think that he'd sleep easier with someone to wrap himself around, someone who would bring him Advil in the morning, who he could drag to brunch to soak up all the booze. Someone who looks a whole lot like Dylan, to his bourbon soaked brain.

"Yeah, that - that worked for me. We'll hang out when I'm home next week." There's a shuffling noise over the line, and Ian pulls the blanket up over his shoulders, settles into the pillow.

"See you then, Dyl. Thanks."

"Night, man." Ian's about to end the call when he hears Dylan, tinny through the speaker, calling his name.

"What?"

"Yeah, don't think we're not talking about the fact you called me Stiles when you came."

Ian feels his face flush, curls his legs up. Shit. "We...will have to revisit that at a later date."

"You bet we will. Sweet dreams."

Ian watches the screen go dark and fumbles the phone onto the nightstand, wonders what that might entail before he falls asleep.


End file.
